“The best way to garden is to put on a wide-brimmed straw hat and some old clothes. And, with a hoe in one hand and a cold drink in the other, tell somebody else where to dig.” Marina Schinz
Michelle Obama has nothing on Mr. Clark. He’s been planning his kitchen garden since late November, when he brought home a copy of Grier’s Almanac he found for free somewhere, and began reading it aloud.
Mr. Clark is nothing, if not an optimist, so he sees his recent period of unemployment as (among other things) an opportunity to “do some things I’ve always wanted to do, but never had the time for…” Apparently, growing his own Victory Garden is one of those things.
He started by planting rye grass in my garden plot. Now actively planting grass in the garden goes against every thought I’ve ever had about gardening, but apparently rye grass actually improves the soil, so filling your garden with it during the off season is a good thing. Imagine my horror, watching, as a thick blanket of bright green shoots gradually took over the very garden bed I’ve battled to keep grass out of for years.
Next came the seed starting. Mr. Clark found a bunch of old seed starter trays in the back shed and painstakingly filled them with some potting soil (also discovered in the back shed). Then, he bought some seeds (I wouldn’t let him use the ancient seed packs he found in the back shed…), planted them, and in no time, had transformed his home office into a verdant nursery for baby plants.
As seedlings often do, though, they got leggy before it was time to put them out. (That is one of the many reasons I’m a plant girt – as in go to the store and buy a few already grown plants, when it is time to put them out…) But, cheery outlook never to waver, Mr. Clark thinned and watered and tended his leggy little buddies until it was near time to put them out.
In the process of turning the rye grass under, my own personal Mr. Green Jeans strained a knee ligament so badly he had to use a cane for a week or so…But, he did get the soil turned and was so excited about that, he jumped the gun a little and put the seedlings out just before that second-to-last cold snap.
“But the almanac said it was time to put them outside!” was his woeful cry. Plan B, plant seeds in the ground, which is what Mr. Clark did, just before that last cold snap.
“Let’s just wait and buy some plants,” has been my stance all along. But, unemployment also fosters thrift, and Mr. Clark’s position is, “that’s just too expensive…Do you have any idea how cheap seeds are, and how many of them come in each pack?”
So far, Mr. Clark’s radish crop is looking pretty good. I can’t say the same for the English peas, basil, and mixed greens. But, there’s hope…after all, it’s been pretty cold up until this week.
Given my lack of enthusiasm about his efforts so far, Mr. Clark was excited to read aloud every word of a recent USA Today article that stated the average home garden (not sure of the size...) costs about $75 to plant, and yields around $600 worth of food.
“$600 worth of food!” he cried. “I’m going to get some more seeds!”
His current plans include planting beans, cucumbers and zucchini from seeds. He has consented to the purchase of tomato and pepper plants. He’s also really excited about finding a white eggplant plant, like the one he read about in the almanac.
“Bloom where you are planted,” has been a favorite saying (and goal) of mine since we moved to the South, some 20 years ago. And, I have to give Mr. Clark credit for being way better at that than I will probably ever be. He accepts new experiences and challenges with enthusiasm, and tries ever so diligently to turn any lemons life hands him into lemonade.
I don’t know if his Victory Garden will yield anywhere near $600 worth of food, but it sure is inspiring – watching him hack away at it, ever the optimist, believing in the grand potential of each tiny seed, rather than opting for the boring, expensive surety of the already-grown plant.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thanks, Monster!
“A monster cannot survive in an environment of gratitude.” - Hawaiian healing wisdom
A good friend e-mailed me the other day - her husband has been laid off. Another “old guy” information specialist joins the ranks Mr. Clark has been among now, for the past 10 months…At my daughter’s job, they just laid off two of the six women who work there…The wife of one of my son’s good friends was let go last month…And, so it continues - the downward spiral of our economy and the upward spiral of unemployment…
Let me tell you, month after month of unemployment will wear you down…The bills pile up, the reserves dwindle…Mr. Clark continues to apply for jobs and work his network, to little or no avail…Some contract work has thankfully, recently come in, but the toll of month after month of worry, doubt, fear, anger and discouragement is a large one.
Finally, something has to give - either reality or attitude-wise - because if it doesn’t, everyone in the house will go crazy. I hit my wall a few weeks ago, and what triggered it (in addition to an ever-increasing depression, punctuated by fits of anger, and an overwhelming sense of worry about the future…) was a column I read in the Athens Banner Herald.
It was by Tom Camp; the title was “Gratitude in the recession.” In the column, he talks about visiting Hawaii, in particular some native healers of the Lomilomi tradition. One healer spoke about how “a monster cannot survive in an environment of gratitude.” The monster the healer was referring to was a tumor. Columnist Camp added fear to the list of other monsters we face, and he’s right.
Camp goes on to talk about how “fear blocks gratitude,” and how fear gets in the way of awareness of the grace that goes on all around us all the time – the simple acts of kindness and small offers of generosity.
“A mind stuck on anxiety about the future misses the wonder of the present moment,” he said, and something about that – and the notion of actually being able to take control over the monsters dominating my life - really hit home.
Here I was, coming down to the kitchen every morning, bringing a cloud of black worried negativity with me - so anxious about the future, and so tired from another night of bad dreams or tormented non-sleep, that I couldn’t even taste my coffee or hear the birds singing outside.
I was angry that my world was falling apart, and there seemed to be no end in sight. I was demoralized because (at least by the look of Athens or Atlanta traffic) everyone but Mr. Clark has a job. I was snapping at people at work and losing my temper way too often. The coldness permeating my heart was making those around me shiver…My monsters were alive and well, and I was the one feeding them.
I had let my house, my mind and my attitude become an all-you-can-eat buffet of negativity for any monster that wanted to stop by…And, while the monsters of fear, worry and unemployment were thriving, Mr. Clark and I had slowly begun to die…
The Lomilomi healers made it clear. It was time for a radical environment adjustment, and there was no one to kill the monsters in my life with gratitude and kindness except me.
So, I began to look for ways to be grateful, rather than angry. And, it turns out, once the monsters have been put on notice (and a diet), being thankful is not all that hard. Even the unemployment has brought us blessings.
Mr. Clark used to travel all the time, and it’s been nice to have him settle into the place he’s always called home, but never spent much time at. I used to do most of the shopping, cooking, cleaning and bill-paying. Since Mr. Clark has taken over these things, we eat better, cheaper, and what finances we have are in much better order. (I still keep a tidier house…)
We used to harbor the delusion that jobs with nice salaries and benefits were guaranteed, which led us to overspend and use credit cards too much. Now that those days are over, our lives are simpler and more under control.
“An environment of gratitude fosters generosity and resiliency,” Mr. Camp wrote, and it’s that word “resilient” I really like. Things could get much worse than they are now – indeed, they might. But, remembering to be aware and thankful for what we do have will certainly help keep those monsters of fear, worry, anger and negativity at bay…And, that will most surely allow us to be more resilient with whatever the future brings.
A good friend e-mailed me the other day - her husband has been laid off. Another “old guy” information specialist joins the ranks Mr. Clark has been among now, for the past 10 months…At my daughter’s job, they just laid off two of the six women who work there…The wife of one of my son’s good friends was let go last month…And, so it continues - the downward spiral of our economy and the upward spiral of unemployment…
Let me tell you, month after month of unemployment will wear you down…The bills pile up, the reserves dwindle…Mr. Clark continues to apply for jobs and work his network, to little or no avail…Some contract work has thankfully, recently come in, but the toll of month after month of worry, doubt, fear, anger and discouragement is a large one.
Finally, something has to give - either reality or attitude-wise - because if it doesn’t, everyone in the house will go crazy. I hit my wall a few weeks ago, and what triggered it (in addition to an ever-increasing depression, punctuated by fits of anger, and an overwhelming sense of worry about the future…) was a column I read in the Athens Banner Herald.
It was by Tom Camp; the title was “Gratitude in the recession.” In the column, he talks about visiting Hawaii, in particular some native healers of the Lomilomi tradition. One healer spoke about how “a monster cannot survive in an environment of gratitude.” The monster the healer was referring to was a tumor. Columnist Camp added fear to the list of other monsters we face, and he’s right.
Camp goes on to talk about how “fear blocks gratitude,” and how fear gets in the way of awareness of the grace that goes on all around us all the time – the simple acts of kindness and small offers of generosity.
“A mind stuck on anxiety about the future misses the wonder of the present moment,” he said, and something about that – and the notion of actually being able to take control over the monsters dominating my life - really hit home.
Here I was, coming down to the kitchen every morning, bringing a cloud of black worried negativity with me - so anxious about the future, and so tired from another night of bad dreams or tormented non-sleep, that I couldn’t even taste my coffee or hear the birds singing outside.
I was angry that my world was falling apart, and there seemed to be no end in sight. I was demoralized because (at least by the look of Athens or Atlanta traffic) everyone but Mr. Clark has a job. I was snapping at people at work and losing my temper way too often. The coldness permeating my heart was making those around me shiver…My monsters were alive and well, and I was the one feeding them.
I had let my house, my mind and my attitude become an all-you-can-eat buffet of negativity for any monster that wanted to stop by…And, while the monsters of fear, worry and unemployment were thriving, Mr. Clark and I had slowly begun to die…
The Lomilomi healers made it clear. It was time for a radical environment adjustment, and there was no one to kill the monsters in my life with gratitude and kindness except me.
So, I began to look for ways to be grateful, rather than angry. And, it turns out, once the monsters have been put on notice (and a diet), being thankful is not all that hard. Even the unemployment has brought us blessings.
Mr. Clark used to travel all the time, and it’s been nice to have him settle into the place he’s always called home, but never spent much time at. I used to do most of the shopping, cooking, cleaning and bill-paying. Since Mr. Clark has taken over these things, we eat better, cheaper, and what finances we have are in much better order. (I still keep a tidier house…)
We used to harbor the delusion that jobs with nice salaries and benefits were guaranteed, which led us to overspend and use credit cards too much. Now that those days are over, our lives are simpler and more under control.
“An environment of gratitude fosters generosity and resiliency,” Mr. Camp wrote, and it’s that word “resilient” I really like. Things could get much worse than they are now – indeed, they might. But, remembering to be aware and thankful for what we do have will certainly help keep those monsters of fear, worry, anger and negativity at bay…And, that will most surely allow us to be more resilient with whatever the future brings.
R U an Idiot?
Driving home from Athens on 316 last Friday afternoon, I was traveling in a pod of speeders, all going slightly over 70 mph, sticking together in a group so that, maybe “the other guy will get the ticket.”
Most of the drivers appeared to be UGA students, going home to Gwinnett, Cobb, Fulton, and other counties for the weekend. Young men in ball caps driving 4-wheel-drive pick-up trucks, SUVs or Jeeps…Young women, sunroofs open, hair blowing in the wind, driving sporty little cars or sporty little SUVs…The common theme was the UGA and Bulldog paraphernalia all over the vehicle.
The other common theme – and, this theme included me - was that we were all doing something else while we were driving - talking on a cell, fiddling with the radio, texting…This while traveling at high speeds, performing an elaborate ballet of lane changes, passing and tail-gating, vying amongst ourselves for who would “get there” first and fastest. This, folks, is very dangerous.
According to an article in the February, 2009 issue of Oprah magazine, entitled “Text at Your Own Risk,” 77% of the respondents to a recent survey said they’d texted while driving. 16% had texted during a funeral (Lord have mercy) and 11 % admitted to texting “during a romantic interlude.” Good Lord! As a society, what have we come to?
In this same article, a neuroscientist named Rene Marois, PhD, was quoted as saying, “The human brain has a crippling inability to do two things at once,” despite our brains using some “100 billion neurons to process information at rates as high as 1,000 times a second.” The article went on to state that a recent British study found texting while driving “slows reaction time more than being drunk or high.”
And, there we all were, sailing down 316 at speeds of 70-75 mph, happily texting away, as if this behavior is sustainable. I can say, based on 5 years experience as an ER social worker, this behavior is not sustainable. Wrecks happen, and when they do, way too many of them are devastating. So, what form of lunacy has me participating in this particular form of road idiocy? Based on my “5 years experience as an ER social worker,” I should know better.
Along the same lines, but a little lighter and more amusing, I listened to an NPR podcast the other day. It was “WNYC on Demand” - “Radio Lab” was the show. The topic was “Choice,” and, like the article in Oprah, it made our minds sound pretty feeble.
They were talking about memory tests conducted by a psychologist named Miller in the 1950’s and they referred to the “Magic # 7, plus or minus 2.” Apparently, the average human mind can only hold 7 digits, plus or minus 2, which is why all of our significant numbers like social security, birth date and phone numbers, are around 7 digits, plus or minus 2.
According to Dr. Miller’s research, the brain is anatomically organized into two systems – the rational brain and the emotional brain. These two brain systems are often at war, but the thing that really pushes them over the edge is a tough choice. Rational brain can pretty much hold its own until it has too much to handle, which in the case of our brains, is something as minor as trying to remember 7 digits while making a choice.
In a classic, and often repeated study, Dr. Miller gave subjects a number to remember - some had only 2 digits, others had as many as 7. The subjects received the number in Room #1. They were to memorize it, go to Room #2, and recite it. Easy enough, right? But, on the way to Room #2, a twist occurred.
The study subjects were approached by a friendly young woman offering them either a “big, fat, juicy slice of chocolate cake,” or a “nice, healthy bowl of fruit salad” as a reward for taking part in the study.
It turns out, in an overwhelming number of cases, the people charged with remembering as many as 7 digits chose the chocolate cake, while those whose task was to remember only 2 or 3 digits chose the fruit plate.
Why? Because as Dr. Miller, and numerous others after him have found, it only takes 6 or 7 digits to mess up rational thinking in the human brain. Rational mind knows that fruit is better for you than chocolate cake – less carbs, less sugar, all in all much more healthy, and in general, a way better choice. But, if rational mind is kept busy remembering 7 or so digits, emotional mind can take over, and basically scream, “We want chocolate cake!”
What this all has to do with a pod of texting traffic traveling way too fast last Friday afternoon on 316? I’m not sure, except to say that we all, too often, fall to the temptation to do too much. It robs us of the pleasure of living moment to moment. It robs us of the safety of simply driving (even if it is too fast…) It robs us of the ability to choose the fruit plate over the chocolate cake…Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big fan of chocolate cake, but maybe even it is best enjoyed without cell phone to text on in hand...
Most of the drivers appeared to be UGA students, going home to Gwinnett, Cobb, Fulton, and other counties for the weekend. Young men in ball caps driving 4-wheel-drive pick-up trucks, SUVs or Jeeps…Young women, sunroofs open, hair blowing in the wind, driving sporty little cars or sporty little SUVs…The common theme was the UGA and Bulldog paraphernalia all over the vehicle.
The other common theme – and, this theme included me - was that we were all doing something else while we were driving - talking on a cell, fiddling with the radio, texting…This while traveling at high speeds, performing an elaborate ballet of lane changes, passing and tail-gating, vying amongst ourselves for who would “get there” first and fastest. This, folks, is very dangerous.
According to an article in the February, 2009 issue of Oprah magazine, entitled “Text at Your Own Risk,” 77% of the respondents to a recent survey said they’d texted while driving. 16% had texted during a funeral (Lord have mercy) and 11 % admitted to texting “during a romantic interlude.” Good Lord! As a society, what have we come to?
In this same article, a neuroscientist named Rene Marois, PhD, was quoted as saying, “The human brain has a crippling inability to do two things at once,” despite our brains using some “100 billion neurons to process information at rates as high as 1,000 times a second.” The article went on to state that a recent British study found texting while driving “slows reaction time more than being drunk or high.”
And, there we all were, sailing down 316 at speeds of 70-75 mph, happily texting away, as if this behavior is sustainable. I can say, based on 5 years experience as an ER social worker, this behavior is not sustainable. Wrecks happen, and when they do, way too many of them are devastating. So, what form of lunacy has me participating in this particular form of road idiocy? Based on my “5 years experience as an ER social worker,” I should know better.
Along the same lines, but a little lighter and more amusing, I listened to an NPR podcast the other day. It was “WNYC on Demand” - “Radio Lab” was the show. The topic was “Choice,” and, like the article in Oprah, it made our minds sound pretty feeble.
They were talking about memory tests conducted by a psychologist named Miller in the 1950’s and they referred to the “Magic # 7, plus or minus 2.” Apparently, the average human mind can only hold 7 digits, plus or minus 2, which is why all of our significant numbers like social security, birth date and phone numbers, are around 7 digits, plus or minus 2.
According to Dr. Miller’s research, the brain is anatomically organized into two systems – the rational brain and the emotional brain. These two brain systems are often at war, but the thing that really pushes them over the edge is a tough choice. Rational brain can pretty much hold its own until it has too much to handle, which in the case of our brains, is something as minor as trying to remember 7 digits while making a choice.
In a classic, and often repeated study, Dr. Miller gave subjects a number to remember - some had only 2 digits, others had as many as 7. The subjects received the number in Room #1. They were to memorize it, go to Room #2, and recite it. Easy enough, right? But, on the way to Room #2, a twist occurred.
The study subjects were approached by a friendly young woman offering them either a “big, fat, juicy slice of chocolate cake,” or a “nice, healthy bowl of fruit salad” as a reward for taking part in the study.
It turns out, in an overwhelming number of cases, the people charged with remembering as many as 7 digits chose the chocolate cake, while those whose task was to remember only 2 or 3 digits chose the fruit plate.
Why? Because as Dr. Miller, and numerous others after him have found, it only takes 6 or 7 digits to mess up rational thinking in the human brain. Rational mind knows that fruit is better for you than chocolate cake – less carbs, less sugar, all in all much more healthy, and in general, a way better choice. But, if rational mind is kept busy remembering 7 or so digits, emotional mind can take over, and basically scream, “We want chocolate cake!”
What this all has to do with a pod of texting traffic traveling way too fast last Friday afternoon on 316? I’m not sure, except to say that we all, too often, fall to the temptation to do too much. It robs us of the pleasure of living moment to moment. It robs us of the safety of simply driving (even if it is too fast…) It robs us of the ability to choose the fruit plate over the chocolate cake…Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big fan of chocolate cake, but maybe even it is best enjoyed without cell phone to text on in hand...
More from the ER
It was another busy night in the ER – not crazy busy, like it was during flu season, but busy enough to make the hours fly by. Last night was sick kid night, with way too many treatment rooms occupied by sad, red-cheeked or pale-faced, feverish, vomiting or dehydrated, tearful, fearful, injured or just feeling really crummy children.
There was the little girl with the broken arm – a fall off her playset – so brave and strong, smiling at staff and her worried parents, as the x-ray machines and doctors and nurses came and went… Several tiny ones with fevers came in – little babies, so new to this world that it’s hard to remember any human is ever that small…The vomiting toddlers, all flush-cheeked and sweaty - angry, scared and unwilling to let any of strangers in scrubs come anywhere near. That’s the age for stranger danger, and boy! do their parents have a hard time of it, listening to their wailing near hysteria, as IV lines are established, and fluids, shots and medicine are given…
One particularly sad story involved an 11-year-old boy who got hit by a car while playing at a friend’s house. The boys were riding bikes, just after dark. They weren’t wearing helmets, lights or reflective clothing. A car hit one of them from behind…I didn’t hear exactly how the accident occurred, but I know the boy suffered a severe head injury and had to be transferred to Scottish Rite in Atlanta.
Heartbreakingly brave, tired and so alone, was the new mother of twin girls – less than two weeks old. One of the twins was vomiting and had bad diarrhea; the other was fine. Two tiny pink bundles, beautiful, long fingers, pursed lips - so fragile, so precious, so well-dressed, so young…The mom looked very tired. She said she hadn’t had any sleep in three days, and was “pretty much doing this alone,” tears welling up in her eyes. Apparently, the dad cut out shortly before the twins were born and her family lives far away…
There was a brave, perky, precocious little Hispanic girl who needed stitches in her hand. Even though the hospital provides interpreters, she insisted on talking to the doctor and nurses herself, saying “I can speak English by myself.”
There was the very worried mother an autistic girl, summoned by her daughter’s teacher after the child had a seizure at pre-school. Mom arrived at the ER 10 minutes before the ambulance, and she was kicking herself for not going to the child’s school instead.
“They told me to come to the hospital, but I should’ve gone there instead,” she said, starting to cry. “I should be with her…She shouldn’t have ride with strangers alone…”
The next ambulance brought a little girl with diabetes who had stopped eating earlier in the week, so her blood sugar was all messed up. Her mother was also worried and very tired-looking. She became tearful – this time happy tears – when the doctor told her the girl was sick with an easily treatable infection and the antibiotics should have her eating again in no time.
I had to do a CPS (Child Protective Services) report on a little boy who suffered a badly broken arm after “falling off his mother’s bed.” The mother seemed attentive and the child was clearly “high energy.” But, the severity of the injury did not match the story, so the Department of Family and Children’s Services will have to check into it…That little boy rode off to Egleston, in Atlanta, laughing, and yelling, and using his good arm to shoot his little foam-shooting ice cream cone (an ER freebie) at everyone he encountered as his gurney rolled down the hall to the ambulance bay.
All so precious, all so frail, all so sick or injured when they arrive…many, thankfully, so many, so much better when they leave…It makes us happy to see a little one who came in really sick leave, smiling, waving, saying, “Bye-bye!”…It makes us sad to see a tiny one flown out on a helicopter, surrounded by fancy equipment and nurses in flight suits…We are infuriated by the abuse we see…And, deeply affected by the occasional, but devastating infant or child death…
My “baby” turns 26 this week. And, while I am so proud of the young woman she has become, my memories of her growing up remain quite vivid. We were well-blessed, in that she only had one trip to the ER, after a fall off a three foot wall, when she was two.
I still remember the sight of her tiny, briefly lifeless-looking body, lying at the foot of that brick wall. I remember how her short and so very precious life flashed through my mind, as I scooped her up and called 911. I remember the joy I felt when she came to a few moments later, and the relief I felt when the ambulance arrived….Her fall turned out to be nothing, but it felt like a lot that day…
That’s the thing the ER teaches me every shift – and, challenges me to remember every day – life is so fleeting and full of unexpected accidents and illnesses. Every day that passes calamity-free is a good day, no matter what else is going on.
There was the little girl with the broken arm – a fall off her playset – so brave and strong, smiling at staff and her worried parents, as the x-ray machines and doctors and nurses came and went… Several tiny ones with fevers came in – little babies, so new to this world that it’s hard to remember any human is ever that small…The vomiting toddlers, all flush-cheeked and sweaty - angry, scared and unwilling to let any of strangers in scrubs come anywhere near. That’s the age for stranger danger, and boy! do their parents have a hard time of it, listening to their wailing near hysteria, as IV lines are established, and fluids, shots and medicine are given…
One particularly sad story involved an 11-year-old boy who got hit by a car while playing at a friend’s house. The boys were riding bikes, just after dark. They weren’t wearing helmets, lights or reflective clothing. A car hit one of them from behind…I didn’t hear exactly how the accident occurred, but I know the boy suffered a severe head injury and had to be transferred to Scottish Rite in Atlanta.
Heartbreakingly brave, tired and so alone, was the new mother of twin girls – less than two weeks old. One of the twins was vomiting and had bad diarrhea; the other was fine. Two tiny pink bundles, beautiful, long fingers, pursed lips - so fragile, so precious, so well-dressed, so young…The mom looked very tired. She said she hadn’t had any sleep in three days, and was “pretty much doing this alone,” tears welling up in her eyes. Apparently, the dad cut out shortly before the twins were born and her family lives far away…
There was a brave, perky, precocious little Hispanic girl who needed stitches in her hand. Even though the hospital provides interpreters, she insisted on talking to the doctor and nurses herself, saying “I can speak English by myself.”
There was the very worried mother an autistic girl, summoned by her daughter’s teacher after the child had a seizure at pre-school. Mom arrived at the ER 10 minutes before the ambulance, and she was kicking herself for not going to the child’s school instead.
“They told me to come to the hospital, but I should’ve gone there instead,” she said, starting to cry. “I should be with her…She shouldn’t have ride with strangers alone…”
The next ambulance brought a little girl with diabetes who had stopped eating earlier in the week, so her blood sugar was all messed up. Her mother was also worried and very tired-looking. She became tearful – this time happy tears – when the doctor told her the girl was sick with an easily treatable infection and the antibiotics should have her eating again in no time.
I had to do a CPS (Child Protective Services) report on a little boy who suffered a badly broken arm after “falling off his mother’s bed.” The mother seemed attentive and the child was clearly “high energy.” But, the severity of the injury did not match the story, so the Department of Family and Children’s Services will have to check into it…That little boy rode off to Egleston, in Atlanta, laughing, and yelling, and using his good arm to shoot his little foam-shooting ice cream cone (an ER freebie) at everyone he encountered as his gurney rolled down the hall to the ambulance bay.
All so precious, all so frail, all so sick or injured when they arrive…many, thankfully, so many, so much better when they leave…It makes us happy to see a little one who came in really sick leave, smiling, waving, saying, “Bye-bye!”…It makes us sad to see a tiny one flown out on a helicopter, surrounded by fancy equipment and nurses in flight suits…We are infuriated by the abuse we see…And, deeply affected by the occasional, but devastating infant or child death…
My “baby” turns 26 this week. And, while I am so proud of the young woman she has become, my memories of her growing up remain quite vivid. We were well-blessed, in that she only had one trip to the ER, after a fall off a three foot wall, when she was two.
I still remember the sight of her tiny, briefly lifeless-looking body, lying at the foot of that brick wall. I remember how her short and so very precious life flashed through my mind, as I scooped her up and called 911. I remember the joy I felt when she came to a few moments later, and the relief I felt when the ambulance arrived….Her fall turned out to be nothing, but it felt like a lot that day…
That’s the thing the ER teaches me every shift – and, challenges me to remember every day – life is so fleeting and full of unexpected accidents and illnesses. Every day that passes calamity-free is a good day, no matter what else is going on.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Angels Unawares
“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” -- Hebrews 13:2
I believe in angels and I like the thought of “entertaining them unawares,” so I do a lot of that. There is just something so magical and hopeful in wondering if the latest cat I rescued or homeless person I slipped an extra sandwich to, is really a visitor checking in on us, from above…
One of my favorite “angels unawares” was Dr. Crags – a weathered old, nearly wild tom cat that appeared on my porch one cold day, a couple of years ago. He was skinny and very motley-looking, gray, with a sort of a crooked face. Scarred and very tentative about the prospect of getting food off my porch, he looked like he’d had a rough life.
Initially, Crags wouldn’t eat while anyone was around. But I left food out for him, and he became a regular visitor. A little later he would stay on the edge of the porch while I put some canned food out for him, eyeing me carefully out of his one good, dark golden eye. Still later, he would actually come to meet me, ravenously gobbling the wet food as fast as I could dump it from the can.
About a year ago Crags got hit by a car or attacked by something, and half of his face was nearly pulled off. His foot was injured, too, and he looked like he was in a lot of pain. There was no way I could grab him to take him to the vet – so far he hadn’t even let me touch him. So, I asked the vet for some strong antibiotics, which I slipped into Crags’ food each day. Because I wanted him to be sure and eat the pills, I switched him over to the whipped cream and baked chicken diet my house cats get, when they have to take a pill. You’d thought poor ole’ Crags had died and gone to heaven, watching him wolf down that chicken and whipped cream so enthusiastically twice a day, in spite of his maimed face.
It took three rounds of the antibiotic, but Dr. Crags eventually healed. And, in a few months his face was almost normal again – maybe a little bit more crooked than before, but fluffy and gray and well-healed. Crags continued to make his way across the street twice a day for months, and I grew fonder and fonder of the sight of him, sitting quizzically there, on the edge of the porch, looking wisely at me through his one good eye.
As time went on, Crags let me pet him while he ate. And, because he ate it with such relish, I continued to feed him mostly whipped cream and chicken. He got such pleasure out of it, and, what if he was an “angel unawares?” I wanted him to give a good report about our hospitality.
Eventually, he even developed a bit of a purr – not really a purr – more of a low grumbling sound, but coming from Dr. Crags, while I petted him, it felt like quite an honor.
The last time I saw Dr. Crags was five days after Christmas. He came for his usual meals and sat for awhile in the sun on the porch, and then he disappeared – never to return. I don’t know what happened to him, but I hope it was a quick and painless, or easy peaceful death.
There have been other “angels unawares” over the years. There was Beezer, the blind, 14-year-old poodle I rescued from the pound. She had a broken foot and very bad breath, but there was something bigger than her ancient tiny self staring out of her cataract-clouded eyes… Pru, a badly buckshot Rottweiller - also rescued from the pound – healed and loved and protected us for years, a deep wisdom and patient love shining from her big brown eyes… Bud, a motley old Silkie rooster with a funny-looking feather mullet certainly had more going on than just watching over the hens I used to have... Countless other creatures - and people - over the years have made me wonder…”Is there more going on here than just the misfortune you seem to have fallen into?”
There is a sad, dusty, almost ethereal demeanor to those who may be angels unawares…a depth to the way they look at you…an almost unearthly wisdom in their eyes….
It’s hard times out there. There may be laid-off people, and foreclosed-on people, people who can’t afford their medicines, and recently-made-homeless pets joining the ranks of those angels unaware who cross our paths in need of help or care…
”Let brotherly love continue,” is how the Apostle Paul started his letter to the Hebrews. (13:1) May we remember that, and give help, and take help, from whatever angels come our way.
I believe in angels and I like the thought of “entertaining them unawares,” so I do a lot of that. There is just something so magical and hopeful in wondering if the latest cat I rescued or homeless person I slipped an extra sandwich to, is really a visitor checking in on us, from above…
One of my favorite “angels unawares” was Dr. Crags – a weathered old, nearly wild tom cat that appeared on my porch one cold day, a couple of years ago. He was skinny and very motley-looking, gray, with a sort of a crooked face. Scarred and very tentative about the prospect of getting food off my porch, he looked like he’d had a rough life.
Initially, Crags wouldn’t eat while anyone was around. But I left food out for him, and he became a regular visitor. A little later he would stay on the edge of the porch while I put some canned food out for him, eyeing me carefully out of his one good, dark golden eye. Still later, he would actually come to meet me, ravenously gobbling the wet food as fast as I could dump it from the can.
About a year ago Crags got hit by a car or attacked by something, and half of his face was nearly pulled off. His foot was injured, too, and he looked like he was in a lot of pain. There was no way I could grab him to take him to the vet – so far he hadn’t even let me touch him. So, I asked the vet for some strong antibiotics, which I slipped into Crags’ food each day. Because I wanted him to be sure and eat the pills, I switched him over to the whipped cream and baked chicken diet my house cats get, when they have to take a pill. You’d thought poor ole’ Crags had died and gone to heaven, watching him wolf down that chicken and whipped cream so enthusiastically twice a day, in spite of his maimed face.
It took three rounds of the antibiotic, but Dr. Crags eventually healed. And, in a few months his face was almost normal again – maybe a little bit more crooked than before, but fluffy and gray and well-healed. Crags continued to make his way across the street twice a day for months, and I grew fonder and fonder of the sight of him, sitting quizzically there, on the edge of the porch, looking wisely at me through his one good eye.
As time went on, Crags let me pet him while he ate. And, because he ate it with such relish, I continued to feed him mostly whipped cream and chicken. He got such pleasure out of it, and, what if he was an “angel unawares?” I wanted him to give a good report about our hospitality.
Eventually, he even developed a bit of a purr – not really a purr – more of a low grumbling sound, but coming from Dr. Crags, while I petted him, it felt like quite an honor.
The last time I saw Dr. Crags was five days after Christmas. He came for his usual meals and sat for awhile in the sun on the porch, and then he disappeared – never to return. I don’t know what happened to him, but I hope it was a quick and painless, or easy peaceful death.
There have been other “angels unawares” over the years. There was Beezer, the blind, 14-year-old poodle I rescued from the pound. She had a broken foot and very bad breath, but there was something bigger than her ancient tiny self staring out of her cataract-clouded eyes… Pru, a badly buckshot Rottweiller - also rescued from the pound – healed and loved and protected us for years, a deep wisdom and patient love shining from her big brown eyes… Bud, a motley old Silkie rooster with a funny-looking feather mullet certainly had more going on than just watching over the hens I used to have... Countless other creatures - and people - over the years have made me wonder…”Is there more going on here than just the misfortune you seem to have fallen into?”
There is a sad, dusty, almost ethereal demeanor to those who may be angels unawares…a depth to the way they look at you…an almost unearthly wisdom in their eyes….
It’s hard times out there. There may be laid-off people, and foreclosed-on people, people who can’t afford their medicines, and recently-made-homeless pets joining the ranks of those angels unaware who cross our paths in need of help or care…
”Let brotherly love continue,” is how the Apostle Paul started his letter to the Hebrews. (13:1) May we remember that, and give help, and take help, from whatever angels come our way.
Black Dog
My neighbor just had her door painted a lovely shade of lavender, and against the also freshly painted periwinkle blue walls of her home, that lavender looks very nice…The daffodils are blooming again, all over our county - on the roadsides, in front of houses, in abandoned lots and in fields where animals graze…And, sometimes, even in the middle of a gray and windy, or cold and rainy, day the sun comes out for a while…giving us hope that Spring will soon return.
This is a difficult time of year for me. It always has been.
The holidays are long gone, but the Sun (at least consistently shining) seems very far away. The weather is too often cold, wet or gray, and hope is hard to come by…In the old days, the way I feel during these bleak end of winter months was simply known as depression.
Now these feeling are called S.A.D., which stands for Seasonal Affect Disorder. The notion is that we are depressed because our bodies aren’t getting enough sun to produce adequate Vitamin D, which means we need light boxes, and time in the sun, and antidepressants, and vitamin supplements, and a therapist, and whatever….
I have tried all of those things with limited success. And, so, I am left dragging myself from early January to mid March with a focused determination even a military hero or a cancer survivor might appreciate.
The famed author William Styron called his depression (I don’t know if it was seasonal…) “The Black Dog,” and I like that analogy. For years, I tried to fight my depression…conquer it…apply reason…bring it to submission…None of that worked.
I’ve also tried prescription drugs…no luck there either. It seems the Black Dog will let you harbor the delusion you’ve actually conquered him for a few months, but, invariably, he comes creeping back, stronger and more wily than before, in spite of the meds…
My latest and most successful approach, (success being a relative term with regard to S.A.D. and its many ramifications…) is to simply accept and coexist with the Black Dog during these bleak - but finite – few months he is in residence.
I acknowledge that he is here - watching me, always present. But, I do not let him take control.
And, he sits there, in the corner, lapping up my weak, sad, depressed energy. He knows his stay is temporary, but he enjoys it anyway.
It’s odd to think that one can develop an on-going, surprisingly predictable and respectful relationship with one’s depression, but, over the years, Black Dog and I have managed to forge that.
He lets me work, and feed the bright red cardinals in my yard, and gather daffodils by the roadside. And, I let him stay there ever present and watching, on the couch near my computer desk, in the back seat of the car, at my feet while I cook, on a rug near the fire.
We know our time together is temporary. We know he’ll leave again when the April Sun returns and the dogwoods begin to bloom. There is no need to force things…
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating going off psych meds to get to know The Black Dog. Depression is a serious thing that can affect people, and their families, very deeply.
I’m just saying I’m glad my Black Dog and I have found a way to co-exist until hope returns again – and, it always does. In the meantime, it’s not such a bad sound – the sad, but familiar thump of a Black Dog wagging his tail at the foot of the bed, on one of these cold harsh nights.
This is a difficult time of year for me. It always has been.
The holidays are long gone, but the Sun (at least consistently shining) seems very far away. The weather is too often cold, wet or gray, and hope is hard to come by…In the old days, the way I feel during these bleak end of winter months was simply known as depression.
Now these feeling are called S.A.D., which stands for Seasonal Affect Disorder. The notion is that we are depressed because our bodies aren’t getting enough sun to produce adequate Vitamin D, which means we need light boxes, and time in the sun, and antidepressants, and vitamin supplements, and a therapist, and whatever….
I have tried all of those things with limited success. And, so, I am left dragging myself from early January to mid March with a focused determination even a military hero or a cancer survivor might appreciate.
The famed author William Styron called his depression (I don’t know if it was seasonal…) “The Black Dog,” and I like that analogy. For years, I tried to fight my depression…conquer it…apply reason…bring it to submission…None of that worked.
I’ve also tried prescription drugs…no luck there either. It seems the Black Dog will let you harbor the delusion you’ve actually conquered him for a few months, but, invariably, he comes creeping back, stronger and more wily than before, in spite of the meds…
My latest and most successful approach, (success being a relative term with regard to S.A.D. and its many ramifications…) is to simply accept and coexist with the Black Dog during these bleak - but finite – few months he is in residence.
I acknowledge that he is here - watching me, always present. But, I do not let him take control.
And, he sits there, in the corner, lapping up my weak, sad, depressed energy. He knows his stay is temporary, but he enjoys it anyway.
It’s odd to think that one can develop an on-going, surprisingly predictable and respectful relationship with one’s depression, but, over the years, Black Dog and I have managed to forge that.
He lets me work, and feed the bright red cardinals in my yard, and gather daffodils by the roadside. And, I let him stay there ever present and watching, on the couch near my computer desk, in the back seat of the car, at my feet while I cook, on a rug near the fire.
We know our time together is temporary. We know he’ll leave again when the April Sun returns and the dogwoods begin to bloom. There is no need to force things…
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating going off psych meds to get to know The Black Dog. Depression is a serious thing that can affect people, and their families, very deeply.
I’m just saying I’m glad my Black Dog and I have found a way to co-exist until hope returns again – and, it always does. In the meantime, it’s not such a bad sound – the sad, but familiar thump of a Black Dog wagging his tail at the foot of the bed, on one of these cold harsh nights.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Send me someone human
It was really busy in the Emergency Room (ER) tonight (I am a social worker there, two 12-hour shifts each week …) And, based on what’s been going on in the ER for the past couple of months, whatever you’ve been reading about the state of our economy is true. We are in a recession, approaching depression, as great – if not greater – than the Great Depression of the 1930’s.
Suicidal thoughts and attempts are up. Domestic violence is up. Assaults and DUIs are up. Child and elder abuse and neglect are up. Lots and lots of sick people can’t pay for their medicines. Folks who have been tottering on the edge of not managing chronic conditions like high blood pressure or diabetes for years are throwing in the towel - they can’t afford their prescriptions and the sliding scale clinics are booked weeks, if not months, in advance…
I don’t know what our new government is going to do about all this, but when you hear that our health care system is in crisis, you hear right.
Tonight there were two suicidal teens whose family situations I had to evaluate for abuse…Several folks off their meds for a month or more, due to lack of money, ended up in the ER – two with such high blood pressure it ‘s a miracle they’re still alive…The waiting room was full of sick, sad, angry folks waiting over two hours to get back to an ER bed, and a bill most of them cannot afford to pay…Staff was cranky…Patients were cranky…I was cranky…The atmosphere was one of tension and a whole lot of folks feeling overwhelmed…
It is hard, in this type of situation, to be consistently caring and calm. Human frailty takes over. We get tired. We get tense. We snap. Nurses who are usually incredibly kind and caring become cold. Doctors who are usually pretty nice people become harsh. Social workers (like me) who are usually giving and tolerant lose interest…and, that is what happened tonight.
Request after request came in…The phone I carry rang incessantly... Everyone wanted something – for nothing, from me…I got yelled at a bunch of times…So many people, having such hard times, no end to their misery in sight…
I understand this mindset because I have worked in the ER for five years…and, more personally, because my once well-employed husband has been out of work now for seven months…I am working three jobs trying to keep us barely afloat, and there is no light, as yet, at the end of our tunnel…I understand where these angry, sad, sick, suicidal, desperate, hopeless patients are coming from…and, in spite of that understanding, at times, I snap.
I wasn’t particularly empathetic the whole shift tonight, but as the 12th hour became the 13th, and a 21-year-old, drunk “John Doe” came in, just as I was getting ready to go home, whatever kindness left in my heart died.
This young man had been found “down” in some bushes on a dark street, unaware of where he was or how he got there. His wallet was completely empty – no ID, no video store card, no scribbled girl’s phone number on a piece of napkin – nothing. The only thing in his pockets was a Chapstick…no car keys, no pocket change – nothing.
As tired as I was of serving humanity for this night, I couldn’t leave him unidentified until the 7 a.m. social worker came in, so I went to talk with him about who he was, what had happened, and who I might call to come be with him in the ER.
The conversation went poorly.
He (like so many are…) was an angry drunk, all accusatory and defensive, not cooperative at all…
I (like so many ER staffers approaching the end of a long hard shift can be…) was less than patient.
He gave me an address, and a phone number, and begged me not to call his mom, whom, apparently, he still lives with…Then he said it.
“If there’s any more questions, send me someone human to ask them. I can’t deal with you anymore. You’re too cold.”
Wow…kicked in the face with a reality check by a drunken 21-year-old. And, he was right. I hadn’t really been much of a human to any of the people I’d dealt with this night…That’s what all this unemployed, uninsured, what-am-I-gonna’-do-next, what’s-gonna’-become-of-us energy does….It saps us of our humanity.
When we read that crime, and domestic violence, and suicide, and depression, and child abuse, and substance abuse, and all manner of other problems are up, it is important to remember – just as this ER social worker did not do tonight – that we are all in this together. There is nothing good, true or constructive to be found in harsh judgement, coldness and impatience…The only thing that may help us through these very rough times is remembering our own – and others’ – humanness.
“Send me someone human” is a fair request, and one that we all, when times get even tougher, should be entitled to make… Let’s hope someone doing better than I did tonight, is there to answer the call!
Suicidal thoughts and attempts are up. Domestic violence is up. Assaults and DUIs are up. Child and elder abuse and neglect are up. Lots and lots of sick people can’t pay for their medicines. Folks who have been tottering on the edge of not managing chronic conditions like high blood pressure or diabetes for years are throwing in the towel - they can’t afford their prescriptions and the sliding scale clinics are booked weeks, if not months, in advance…
I don’t know what our new government is going to do about all this, but when you hear that our health care system is in crisis, you hear right.
Tonight there were two suicidal teens whose family situations I had to evaluate for abuse…Several folks off their meds for a month or more, due to lack of money, ended up in the ER – two with such high blood pressure it ‘s a miracle they’re still alive…The waiting room was full of sick, sad, angry folks waiting over two hours to get back to an ER bed, and a bill most of them cannot afford to pay…Staff was cranky…Patients were cranky…I was cranky…The atmosphere was one of tension and a whole lot of folks feeling overwhelmed…
It is hard, in this type of situation, to be consistently caring and calm. Human frailty takes over. We get tired. We get tense. We snap. Nurses who are usually incredibly kind and caring become cold. Doctors who are usually pretty nice people become harsh. Social workers (like me) who are usually giving and tolerant lose interest…and, that is what happened tonight.
Request after request came in…The phone I carry rang incessantly... Everyone wanted something – for nothing, from me…I got yelled at a bunch of times…So many people, having such hard times, no end to their misery in sight…
I understand this mindset because I have worked in the ER for five years…and, more personally, because my once well-employed husband has been out of work now for seven months…I am working three jobs trying to keep us barely afloat, and there is no light, as yet, at the end of our tunnel…I understand where these angry, sad, sick, suicidal, desperate, hopeless patients are coming from…and, in spite of that understanding, at times, I snap.
I wasn’t particularly empathetic the whole shift tonight, but as the 12th hour became the 13th, and a 21-year-old, drunk “John Doe” came in, just as I was getting ready to go home, whatever kindness left in my heart died.
This young man had been found “down” in some bushes on a dark street, unaware of where he was or how he got there. His wallet was completely empty – no ID, no video store card, no scribbled girl’s phone number on a piece of napkin – nothing. The only thing in his pockets was a Chapstick…no car keys, no pocket change – nothing.
As tired as I was of serving humanity for this night, I couldn’t leave him unidentified until the 7 a.m. social worker came in, so I went to talk with him about who he was, what had happened, and who I might call to come be with him in the ER.
The conversation went poorly.
He (like so many are…) was an angry drunk, all accusatory and defensive, not cooperative at all…
I (like so many ER staffers approaching the end of a long hard shift can be…) was less than patient.
He gave me an address, and a phone number, and begged me not to call his mom, whom, apparently, he still lives with…Then he said it.
“If there’s any more questions, send me someone human to ask them. I can’t deal with you anymore. You’re too cold.”
Wow…kicked in the face with a reality check by a drunken 21-year-old. And, he was right. I hadn’t really been much of a human to any of the people I’d dealt with this night…That’s what all this unemployed, uninsured, what-am-I-gonna’-do-next, what’s-gonna’-become-of-us energy does….It saps us of our humanity.
When we read that crime, and domestic violence, and suicide, and depression, and child abuse, and substance abuse, and all manner of other problems are up, it is important to remember – just as this ER social worker did not do tonight – that we are all in this together. There is nothing good, true or constructive to be found in harsh judgement, coldness and impatience…The only thing that may help us through these very rough times is remembering our own – and others’ – humanness.
“Send me someone human” is a fair request, and one that we all, when times get even tougher, should be entitled to make… Let’s hope someone doing better than I did tonight, is there to answer the call!
Monday, January 26, 2009
Service
“Starting today we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and begin again the work of remaking America. For everywhere we look there is work to be done.”
- President Barack Obama
I had to pull over onto the side of the road the other day, and just sit, and listen, and be thankful, and pray. I was listening to President Obama’s Inaugural Speech on NPR, having just left our new Superior Court Judge Currie Mingledorff’s office, after a brief but very inspiring interview.
The thing that overwhelmed me, and brought tears to my eyes, was the profound sense of humility and sincere desire to serve that seems to fill both of these men’s hearts.
President Obama used the words “humble,” “mindful,” and “grateful” to describe part of his approach to being the 44th President of the United States. He spoke of the “spirit of service” our nation will need, if we’re going to pull out of and recover from the many challenges now facing us individually, and, as a nation. He spoke of the “tempering qualities of humility and restraint,” and of our collective opportunity to “choose our better history.”
Tear-producing and profoundly inspiring stuff, that.
I interviewed our own, newly elected Superior Court Judge, Currie Mingledorff, just before the inaugural address began, and he spoke of many of the same things. He called service both “an obligation and a privilege.” He spoke about how important humility has always been to him. He talked of his deep recognition of his own blessings, and of his sincere desire to “give back.”
President Obama was sworn into office with his hand on the Bible that was used to swear Abraham Lincoln into the same office. Imagine that! Judge Mingledorff has a print of a painting in his office of George Washington, formally dressed, kneeling in the snow next to his horse, praying. Washingon and the horse, also formally festooned, look as if they were headed to some state event when our first President stopped, for a moment, to seek God’s counsel.
“That picture means a lot to me,” Judge Mingledorff said. “It’s about the great strength that comes with recognizing how little one knows…Humility…and, the knowledge that we are dependent on our Maker…Even George Washington knew when he needed to ask for help.”
One thing both President Obama and our new Superior Court Judge emphasize is the need for us all to be involved – for us all to serve. Throughout his campaign, and in his inaugural speech, President Obama challenges us - each and every one - to action.
“We’re all frail…and, we’re all in this together,” Judge Mingledorff said. “We’re all supposed to help and serve each other, through our whole lives…”
A week or so ago, I had the opportunity to spend some equally inspiring time with a group of every day citizens who are already doing their part to answer the call. They were the 16 new volunteers, being trained to become Court Appointed Special Advocates (to serve in our local judicial circuit’s CASA program) for children in the foster care system.
They were a diverse group – different races, ages, and professions - in different stages of life. One couple, Jeremy and T.C. Howard, said they’d been foster parents for years. They’d decided to close their home, but “wanted to continue serving the kids.”
Lisa Bramlett said she’d “worked in the court system” and had “seen how many kids need someone to help and advocate for them….I’ve been blessed with a wonderful life, and now I want to give back.”
Retired family advocate, Debbie Rosselle, said she “was an abused child,” and “had been fortunate enough to use that experience to help kids.” Dwight Acey, a retired probation officer, said he’d spent 20 years working case loads of “drug dealers, users, predators, rapists, thieves and murderers,” and he saw being a volunteer CASA as an “opportunity to work on the other end…hopefully help intervene before these kids go down those paths…”
What does this group of volunteers – including a pest control man, a recently unemployed mother of a newborn, an Army wife with two teenagers, a realtor with two kids in the Navy, a retired teacher and a school bus driver – have in common with our recently elected President and Superior Court Judge?
The desire to serve, a recognition of blessings, and the need to “give something back.”
“You can’t help everyone,” retired probation officer turned volunteer CASA Acey said, “but you can make an effort and that effort pays off with some…I just want to be of value - of use to the court and of use to the children.”
It’s an exciting and challenging time, folks. There are plenty of ways to serve - our community, our nation, the world at large.
“Yes, we can!” so many of us chanted, for so many months. Now, “Let’s get started!” can be our new battle cry.
- President Barack Obama
I had to pull over onto the side of the road the other day, and just sit, and listen, and be thankful, and pray. I was listening to President Obama’s Inaugural Speech on NPR, having just left our new Superior Court Judge Currie Mingledorff’s office, after a brief but very inspiring interview.
The thing that overwhelmed me, and brought tears to my eyes, was the profound sense of humility and sincere desire to serve that seems to fill both of these men’s hearts.
President Obama used the words “humble,” “mindful,” and “grateful” to describe part of his approach to being the 44th President of the United States. He spoke of the “spirit of service” our nation will need, if we’re going to pull out of and recover from the many challenges now facing us individually, and, as a nation. He spoke of the “tempering qualities of humility and restraint,” and of our collective opportunity to “choose our better history.”
Tear-producing and profoundly inspiring stuff, that.
I interviewed our own, newly elected Superior Court Judge, Currie Mingledorff, just before the inaugural address began, and he spoke of many of the same things. He called service both “an obligation and a privilege.” He spoke about how important humility has always been to him. He talked of his deep recognition of his own blessings, and of his sincere desire to “give back.”
President Obama was sworn into office with his hand on the Bible that was used to swear Abraham Lincoln into the same office. Imagine that! Judge Mingledorff has a print of a painting in his office of George Washington, formally dressed, kneeling in the snow next to his horse, praying. Washingon and the horse, also formally festooned, look as if they were headed to some state event when our first President stopped, for a moment, to seek God’s counsel.
“That picture means a lot to me,” Judge Mingledorff said. “It’s about the great strength that comes with recognizing how little one knows…Humility…and, the knowledge that we are dependent on our Maker…Even George Washington knew when he needed to ask for help.”
One thing both President Obama and our new Superior Court Judge emphasize is the need for us all to be involved – for us all to serve. Throughout his campaign, and in his inaugural speech, President Obama challenges us - each and every one - to action.
“We’re all frail…and, we’re all in this together,” Judge Mingledorff said. “We’re all supposed to help and serve each other, through our whole lives…”
A week or so ago, I had the opportunity to spend some equally inspiring time with a group of every day citizens who are already doing their part to answer the call. They were the 16 new volunteers, being trained to become Court Appointed Special Advocates (to serve in our local judicial circuit’s CASA program) for children in the foster care system.
They were a diverse group – different races, ages, and professions - in different stages of life. One couple, Jeremy and T.C. Howard, said they’d been foster parents for years. They’d decided to close their home, but “wanted to continue serving the kids.”
Lisa Bramlett said she’d “worked in the court system” and had “seen how many kids need someone to help and advocate for them….I’ve been blessed with a wonderful life, and now I want to give back.”
Retired family advocate, Debbie Rosselle, said she “was an abused child,” and “had been fortunate enough to use that experience to help kids.” Dwight Acey, a retired probation officer, said he’d spent 20 years working case loads of “drug dealers, users, predators, rapists, thieves and murderers,” and he saw being a volunteer CASA as an “opportunity to work on the other end…hopefully help intervene before these kids go down those paths…”
What does this group of volunteers – including a pest control man, a recently unemployed mother of a newborn, an Army wife with two teenagers, a realtor with two kids in the Navy, a retired teacher and a school bus driver – have in common with our recently elected President and Superior Court Judge?
The desire to serve, a recognition of blessings, and the need to “give something back.”
“You can’t help everyone,” retired probation officer turned volunteer CASA Acey said, “but you can make an effort and that effort pays off with some…I just want to be of value - of use to the court and of use to the children.”
It’s an exciting and challenging time, folks. There are plenty of ways to serve - our community, our nation, the world at large.
“Yes, we can!” so many of us chanted, for so many months. Now, “Let’s get started!” can be our new battle cry.
Triple A's
“A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, rushing by, like a torrent down a steep mountain.”
-- Siddhartha Guatama Buddha
As you may or may not recall, one of my jobs is serving as an ER social worker in a busy regional hospital. This crazy, taxing, spiritual work delivers life lessons on almost every shift, and for that I remain ever thankful.
The other day a really bizarre thing happened.
We got two “triple A’s” (aortic aneurisms) within an hour of each other. Aortic aneurisms are the rupture of the aortic blood vessel. They cause pain, internal hemorrhage, and without prompt treatment, quick death. A “triple A” is quite rare, and often fatal, so the notion that I had to help two families deal with this potentially catastrophic event within the span of a single hour was particularly daunting…
The first man was in his early 60’s, with no medical history to speak of. He’d been having some belly and back pain for the past few days, and finally went to a walk-in clinic. They promptly sent him to the ER, as his belly was full of blood due to an aortic rupture that was rapidly reaching fatal proportions. He needed surgery and he needed it now.
This man was a low-key, happy-seeming fellow, well-dressed, kind and jovial. When I asked him who I should call, given that he was headed to surgery within minutes, he said, “Call my wife and have her call John – the sheep need to be fed and John can do that. My wife just had surgery herself, so I’m not sure she can get here…just be sure she tells John to feed the sheep.”
I made the calls, and his wife’s pastor arranged for a church member to pick his wife up and get her to the hospital, so she could be there when - and if - he woke up. (Aortic aneurisms have a 50-percent mortality rate.)
I let the surgeon and the nurse know what was happening, and the man’s parting words - as he was rolled off to a critical surgery - were, “Be sure my wife has John feed the sheep. It’s going to be cold tonight…”
The second “triple A” patient came in shortly thereafter.
He was in his early 70’s, and, like the first man, had been having belly pain for a few days – only his was more acute. His wife and son were with him, and they both looked haggard, and afraid, and very strong and hopeful when they were in the room with him.
The surgeon told his wife that her husband was “very sick” and “has a 50-50 chance of surviving this surgery.”
“We will do everything we can to save your husband,” the surgeon said, “but it’s in God’s hands…Call your family and friends. You’re going to need support to get through this, whatever the outcome is.”
That man’s wife, tearfully, and so bravely said, “We will be fine, no matter what happens...It’s in God’s hands now, and we trust God, no matter what…”
I stopped for a moment, replayed her words in my mind, and got back in touch with what really matters…So strong and clear, some of these ER families are…This woman, whose life was just fine about four hours ago, has now heard that her husband has a 50-50 chance of surviving the surgery he must have, to have any chance of survival at all…How crazy must her life feel right now?
Both men survived their surgeries.
No small miracle there.
How thankful both those families must be…And, how strange and wonderful it must be to go home, having paid a visit to death’s door and not passed through…
The thing I took home with me, after that ER day, was a renewed understanding of just how fleeting and fragile life is…One minute a man is feeding his sheep or headed to the office. The next minute he’s flat on his back on a hospital gurney, hearing that he has a 50-50 chance of surviving the surgery he’s about to have...
In other ER cases I’ve attended, the same lesson…One minute a UGA student is sailing down a hill on his bike...He hits a rock in the road and crashes…His backpack and papers fly everywhere…He ends up in the hospital with a bad brain bleed, no idea of who or where he is…
A young mother is headed to work, dropping her kids off at school on the way…An early morning drunk driver runs a stop sign and hits their car…The kids are okay, but mom has suffered a potentially fatal injury…Dad hasn’t been involved in years…Who to call to come take care of these kids?
An elderly couple, out for an afternoon of errands…The wife is driving because her vision is better…She makes a left turn into a shopping center, not seeing the 18-wheeler that has just run a yellow light in front of her…The truck hits their car…The wife is fine, but the husband, seated on the right side of the car, where the 18-wheeler just hit, is instantly killed by the truck’s impact…What does she do now, to go on living without her 50+ year companion?
Every day we get up, and go about our business, as if going about that business is guaranteed…The thing to remember is that going about that business is not guaranteed. Every day we get, that passes disaster free, is a profound blessing…Others will not be so lucky today…I’m not sure what we do with this information, except try, and try again, to be appreciative and thankful of each calamity-free day we are blessed with…and, to pray for and help as we best can, those whose calamity has come on this day…
-- Siddhartha Guatama Buddha
As you may or may not recall, one of my jobs is serving as an ER social worker in a busy regional hospital. This crazy, taxing, spiritual work delivers life lessons on almost every shift, and for that I remain ever thankful.
The other day a really bizarre thing happened.
We got two “triple A’s” (aortic aneurisms) within an hour of each other. Aortic aneurisms are the rupture of the aortic blood vessel. They cause pain, internal hemorrhage, and without prompt treatment, quick death. A “triple A” is quite rare, and often fatal, so the notion that I had to help two families deal with this potentially catastrophic event within the span of a single hour was particularly daunting…
The first man was in his early 60’s, with no medical history to speak of. He’d been having some belly and back pain for the past few days, and finally went to a walk-in clinic. They promptly sent him to the ER, as his belly was full of blood due to an aortic rupture that was rapidly reaching fatal proportions. He needed surgery and he needed it now.
This man was a low-key, happy-seeming fellow, well-dressed, kind and jovial. When I asked him who I should call, given that he was headed to surgery within minutes, he said, “Call my wife and have her call John – the sheep need to be fed and John can do that. My wife just had surgery herself, so I’m not sure she can get here…just be sure she tells John to feed the sheep.”
I made the calls, and his wife’s pastor arranged for a church member to pick his wife up and get her to the hospital, so she could be there when - and if - he woke up. (Aortic aneurisms have a 50-percent mortality rate.)
I let the surgeon and the nurse know what was happening, and the man’s parting words - as he was rolled off to a critical surgery - were, “Be sure my wife has John feed the sheep. It’s going to be cold tonight…”
The second “triple A” patient came in shortly thereafter.
He was in his early 70’s, and, like the first man, had been having belly pain for a few days – only his was more acute. His wife and son were with him, and they both looked haggard, and afraid, and very strong and hopeful when they were in the room with him.
The surgeon told his wife that her husband was “very sick” and “has a 50-50 chance of surviving this surgery.”
“We will do everything we can to save your husband,” the surgeon said, “but it’s in God’s hands…Call your family and friends. You’re going to need support to get through this, whatever the outcome is.”
That man’s wife, tearfully, and so bravely said, “We will be fine, no matter what happens...It’s in God’s hands now, and we trust God, no matter what…”
I stopped for a moment, replayed her words in my mind, and got back in touch with what really matters…So strong and clear, some of these ER families are…This woman, whose life was just fine about four hours ago, has now heard that her husband has a 50-50 chance of surviving the surgery he must have, to have any chance of survival at all…How crazy must her life feel right now?
Both men survived their surgeries.
No small miracle there.
How thankful both those families must be…And, how strange and wonderful it must be to go home, having paid a visit to death’s door and not passed through…
The thing I took home with me, after that ER day, was a renewed understanding of just how fleeting and fragile life is…One minute a man is feeding his sheep or headed to the office. The next minute he’s flat on his back on a hospital gurney, hearing that he has a 50-50 chance of surviving the surgery he’s about to have...
In other ER cases I’ve attended, the same lesson…One minute a UGA student is sailing down a hill on his bike...He hits a rock in the road and crashes…His backpack and papers fly everywhere…He ends up in the hospital with a bad brain bleed, no idea of who or where he is…
A young mother is headed to work, dropping her kids off at school on the way…An early morning drunk driver runs a stop sign and hits their car…The kids are okay, but mom has suffered a potentially fatal injury…Dad hasn’t been involved in years…Who to call to come take care of these kids?
An elderly couple, out for an afternoon of errands…The wife is driving because her vision is better…She makes a left turn into a shopping center, not seeing the 18-wheeler that has just run a yellow light in front of her…The truck hits their car…The wife is fine, but the husband, seated on the right side of the car, where the 18-wheeler just hit, is instantly killed by the truck’s impact…What does she do now, to go on living without her 50+ year companion?
Every day we get up, and go about our business, as if going about that business is guaranteed…The thing to remember is that going about that business is not guaranteed. Every day we get, that passes disaster free, is a profound blessing…Others will not be so lucky today…I’m not sure what we do with this information, except try, and try again, to be appreciative and thankful of each calamity-free day we are blessed with…and, to pray for and help as we best can, those whose calamity has come on this day…
Monday, January 12, 2009
Lost Boys
“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing…” – Peter Pan
My daughter gave me a beautiful, hand calligraphed print of that phrase for Christmas. It features a pirate ship, also beautifully calligraphed, and is signed, “from your Wendy and the Lost Boys.”
It was a particularly special gift because it was a sort of commemoration of how I raised my kids, and a statement that, at least my daughter, was glad things had been that way.
Our home was always more like the Island of Lost Boys, than a well-run British flat. There was no nanny, not so many rules, lots of pets and friends over, and plenty of sweets. I made sure it was a safe environment, but beyond that, chaos often seemed to have the upper hand – which was fine with me.
You see, I believe kids are a little like weeds. They thrive under a bit of neglect, which in this case means simply, not being tended to (and scheduled) all of the time.
I grew up in the early ‘60’s, before there were video games, IPODs, DVD players, text messaging or LOTS of scheduled activities for children to participate in. Back then, most of our moms stayed home, and we spent our after-school and summer hours roaming the neighborhood, creating our own games and fun. Back then sugar was okay and learning to amuse ourselves was a requirement.
I applied many of the same rules as my kids grew up in the early ‘80s. “No TV after school, no electronics or TV at the dinner table…play outside, A LOT…no avoiding human or family contact with headphones and such….and, sugar, in moderation, is just fine.” I wanted my kids to learn to experience life, and all of its’ challenges and adventures – without the buffer that the constant use of electronics or chronic over-scheduling can bring…
On car trips my kids did what my brother and I had done – play games, stare out the window, taunt each other subtly enough that the parents wouldn’t be alerted, and pass the time imagining things…the motto being, “What would the Lost Boys do?”
Time in quiet places, like church or the library was spent drawing and dreaming and sucking on Lifesavers. There were no tiny computers or DVD players or IPODs to help pass the time…We were simply there, in the trenches of quiet time together, without the isolation electronic devices seem to impart on the families who rely on them so heavily.
The point is, I think children these days are missing out. With all of the activities their parents enroll them in, and our society’s growing tolerance for the near constant use of electronics, kids are left little time for playing and imagining things…
It makes me sad to see the kid in church, on his tiny computer game, earphones in place, oblivious to the magic and wonder of the stained glass windows, the preacher’s low voice, and the organ’s majestic tones.
It makes me sad to see the flower girl in a wedding so tied to her tiny DVD player and the movie it’s playing – a movie she’s seen 500 times – that she misses the fun of being with the big girls on the wedding day, watching the bride and getting really excited about dropping those petals along that aisle.
It makes me sad to see teenagers so tied to their IPODs, that they are virtually not present at family events, dinners and holidays…
What we create - when we schedule our children so heavily and allow/encourage them to be so constantly in need of entertainment - is a culture devoid of imagination and unable to amuse itself during the down times – and, life as a grown up certainly has more than its’ share of down, tedious, or simply un-amusing times.
Too many of the grown-up children of today are unable to focus on the task at hand - no matter how well-paying and important that task might be. At work, I see them texting, and instant messaging, and surfing the web and it annoys me. Can’t they just “hang up and drive?”
Something very magical, useful and real gets lost when we no longer encourage, or indeed, expect our children to be able to create their own adventures…Back in the day, the Lost Boys could imagine their thin soup was a magnificent feast…My children could become astronauts on the moon, while riding in the backseat of a car…Somehow, it seems now, the adventure, spontaneity, and joy of life gets scheduled or Video-gamed away…
A few weeks ago, I was taking photos of a family for their holiday card. The little girl, age four, wouldn’t smile – not for anything. Finally, in exasperation, her mother sent her upstairs to “look at (her) personal responsibility chart” and “remind (herself) that today’s responsibility was to smile nicely for the photos.” My heart just broke. No wonder that child can’t smile. She’s got the weight of the world on those tiny shoulders – at the age of four!
“‘Pan, what are you?’ Hook asked huskily. ‘I’m youth. I’m joy. I’m a little bird that has broken out of an egg,’” Pan replied…Isn’t that what we want for our kids?
Nowadays, Pan might’ve been so busy with his I-Tunes that he wouldn’t have even heard Hook, let alone replied…And, how sad is that!
My daughter gave me a beautiful, hand calligraphed print of that phrase for Christmas. It features a pirate ship, also beautifully calligraphed, and is signed, “from your Wendy and the Lost Boys.”
It was a particularly special gift because it was a sort of commemoration of how I raised my kids, and a statement that, at least my daughter, was glad things had been that way.
Our home was always more like the Island of Lost Boys, than a well-run British flat. There was no nanny, not so many rules, lots of pets and friends over, and plenty of sweets. I made sure it was a safe environment, but beyond that, chaos often seemed to have the upper hand – which was fine with me.
You see, I believe kids are a little like weeds. They thrive under a bit of neglect, which in this case means simply, not being tended to (and scheduled) all of the time.
I grew up in the early ‘60’s, before there were video games, IPODs, DVD players, text messaging or LOTS of scheduled activities for children to participate in. Back then, most of our moms stayed home, and we spent our after-school and summer hours roaming the neighborhood, creating our own games and fun. Back then sugar was okay and learning to amuse ourselves was a requirement.
I applied many of the same rules as my kids grew up in the early ‘80s. “No TV after school, no electronics or TV at the dinner table…play outside, A LOT…no avoiding human or family contact with headphones and such….and, sugar, in moderation, is just fine.” I wanted my kids to learn to experience life, and all of its’ challenges and adventures – without the buffer that the constant use of electronics or chronic over-scheduling can bring…
On car trips my kids did what my brother and I had done – play games, stare out the window, taunt each other subtly enough that the parents wouldn’t be alerted, and pass the time imagining things…the motto being, “What would the Lost Boys do?”
Time in quiet places, like church or the library was spent drawing and dreaming and sucking on Lifesavers. There were no tiny computers or DVD players or IPODs to help pass the time…We were simply there, in the trenches of quiet time together, without the isolation electronic devices seem to impart on the families who rely on them so heavily.
The point is, I think children these days are missing out. With all of the activities their parents enroll them in, and our society’s growing tolerance for the near constant use of electronics, kids are left little time for playing and imagining things…
It makes me sad to see the kid in church, on his tiny computer game, earphones in place, oblivious to the magic and wonder of the stained glass windows, the preacher’s low voice, and the organ’s majestic tones.
It makes me sad to see the flower girl in a wedding so tied to her tiny DVD player and the movie it’s playing – a movie she’s seen 500 times – that she misses the fun of being with the big girls on the wedding day, watching the bride and getting really excited about dropping those petals along that aisle.
It makes me sad to see teenagers so tied to their IPODs, that they are virtually not present at family events, dinners and holidays…
What we create - when we schedule our children so heavily and allow/encourage them to be so constantly in need of entertainment - is a culture devoid of imagination and unable to amuse itself during the down times – and, life as a grown up certainly has more than its’ share of down, tedious, or simply un-amusing times.
Too many of the grown-up children of today are unable to focus on the task at hand - no matter how well-paying and important that task might be. At work, I see them texting, and instant messaging, and surfing the web and it annoys me. Can’t they just “hang up and drive?”
Something very magical, useful and real gets lost when we no longer encourage, or indeed, expect our children to be able to create their own adventures…Back in the day, the Lost Boys could imagine their thin soup was a magnificent feast…My children could become astronauts on the moon, while riding in the backseat of a car…Somehow, it seems now, the adventure, spontaneity, and joy of life gets scheduled or Video-gamed away…
A few weeks ago, I was taking photos of a family for their holiday card. The little girl, age four, wouldn’t smile – not for anything. Finally, in exasperation, her mother sent her upstairs to “look at (her) personal responsibility chart” and “remind (herself) that today’s responsibility was to smile nicely for the photos.” My heart just broke. No wonder that child can’t smile. She’s got the weight of the world on those tiny shoulders – at the age of four!
“‘Pan, what are you?’ Hook asked huskily. ‘I’m youth. I’m joy. I’m a little bird that has broken out of an egg,’” Pan replied…Isn’t that what we want for our kids?
Nowadays, Pan might’ve been so busy with his I-Tunes that he wouldn’t have even heard Hook, let alone replied…And, how sad is that!
Monday, January 5, 2009
Hope found in newlywed’s faces
"Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul…” - Emily Dickinson
If ever there is a time when hope springs anew, for me, it is the beginning of a new year. There is something so optimistic about all those blank calendar pages, stretching into the year ahead…and, something so cleansing about throwing all of those old calendar pages away.
I like to reflect on the past year, as I flip through the pages of last year’s calendar, transferring birthdays and anniversaries to the year ahead. I like to take a moment to be thankful for all the good things that happened, and to lick my wounds a bit over all the bad things that also occurred. 2008 was a particularly rough year in the Clark house, and I am glad to see it go. I’m so glad 2008 is over, that I’m not even having any trouble remembering to write 2009 on checks and letters and such. Goodbye, good riddance - 2008! Welcome, 2009 – with whatever is in store!
I am not an optimistic person – quite the opposite, in fact. Every glass I see is half-empty, every silver cloud has a dark lining, disaster in one form or another lurks around every corner…So, you see why this ritual of sitting down with a fresh calendar and actually looking forward to the year ahead is particularly special to me. It is a fleeting and precious time of optimism in my otherwise pessimistic year.
By late January, my annual winter depression sets in and there is no more hope springing eternal in this bleak, weary heart until the spring sun begins to shine again…At least, that is the way it has been. But this year, I am thinking about taking a different approach. This year I am considering making “Hope!” my motto for the entire year – not just the month of January.
I got an incredibly upbeat Christmas letter from an old friend, who proclaimed, “We choose Hope!” several times in each paragraph. This woman is, and always has been, a particularly rabid optimist, so the tone of her letter was no surprise. But, something about the phrase she used so often, and so optimistically, struck me.
Can “Hope!” be a choice we make? Can someone like me choose “Hope!” rather than fear or dread, as my anchoring emotion? Even in the face of challenges like Mr. Clark’s continued unemployment and our impending financial doom?
For a life-long pessimist, this is pretty radical thinking – which is why I’m still “considering” and “thinking about” making “Hope!” my motto this year…
But, as so often is the case, the good Lord has provided clear lessons and obvious nudges as to how He wishes me to proceed…With regard to hope, the lessons are found in my work as a wedding photographer. There is nothing more hopeful or optimistic than the faces of a bride and groom, as they stand together - in the company of God, their families and friends - and join their lives and hearts. Even a crusty old pessimist like me is touched every time I witness this amazing sight - and, in the wedding photography business, that is, thankfully, quite often.
I can be in a horrible mood, with a wedding party that is running me ragged by being tardy or tipsy or simply hard to corral…the bride may have melted down…her mother may have yelled at me…the groom’s mother may be a wreck…or, maybe one of the grampas has disappeared…a disaster might have occurred with the cake, or the veil, or the dress…the list of things that can go wrong at a wedding is endless…The thing that always goes right at a wedding, however, is the look that comes on both of those lit-up-with-love faces, as the couple joins hands, looks deeply into each others’ eyes and promises their future to each other.
And, even though as many as 40% of those couples may eventually part ways, on that day, at that moment, in those hearts, there is nothing but hope…Hope springing eternal in their eyes, and in mine, as I brush away a tear while trying to capture that moment for posterity with my camera’s eye.
So, yes, this year - just like all of those newlyweds - I choose “Hope!” With no guarantee of outcome, I will make “Hope!” my conscious choice each day. Feels like a pretty big undertaking, especially in the face of all my usual fear and dread…Good thing I’ve already got weddings booked through the new year, to keep me tearful, hopeful, and on track!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Late Night Blessings
It’s 5 a.m. and I’m fresh off a 3 p. – 3 a. shift in the ER. I’m a social worker there, which is, at times boring - as in, “Bring me a Coke or a blanket or help me make a phone call…” It is also, at times, quite harrowing – as in, “Call this man’s family and tell them he has died in an ‘MVC’ (motor vehicle crash) - and, get them here right away to identify his body and claim his valuables…”
Really, really bizarre work - good work - but really, really bizarre work. .Tonight’s shift started out slow, which meant I had time to complete my “holiday bereavement cards.” These are personal notes written to anyone I’ve tried to help through an awful experience during the past year.
This year’s list included families of a “GSW” (gun shot wound - in this case fatal) to the head, a premature and quickly fatal stroke, a suicide., a foreseen but still very sad heart attack, and a 10-week old baby’s death…Serious stuff here - these people are hurting intensely this holiday season, and here I am, fretting about Mr. Clark finding work …
Around 1:30 in the morning, as it often does, ER hell broke loose…
A woman transferred from another hospital, bleeding badly, is in need of surgery tonight. Her distraught, but clearly strong and connected family signs the consent forms and tries to deal with the news from the surgeon that, “she probably won’t make it through this…”
The wife and daughter of a man with untreated high blood pressure hear that he has suffered “a massive stroke - from which he won’t recover.” Such strong women they were, praying and crying and talking to him, touching his chest and telling him how much they love him and how much they needed him to get better, while at the same time saying good bye…
There was an intubated man, also transferred from another hospital, his injuries the result of an MVC. In this case, his girlfriend apparently dropped him off at the ER and left. As head injury patients often are, he was combative, and somehow ended up heavily sedated and on a breathing machine - no family, friends or girlfriend in sight, no numbers in the chart or anywhere on him to call…
Add to all that, the poor panic attack girl who was on her second ER visit – seventh panic attack – of the day and you really begin to count your blessings.
After all, it is the holiday season, and many of us have brightly lit Christmas trees or other holiday decorations shining in our homes. We have loved ones, and good health, and holiday plans that involve good food, much laughter and excellent fellowship. It’s hard to imagine, as we gather near our Christmas trees or Menorahs or whatever, that some - in fact, so many – folks are struggling so hard, just trying to make it through the aftermath of a terrible tragedy.
On the way out of the hospital I stopped to look at the huge Christmas tree they put up in the main lobby each year. It’s three stories high and replete with lights and great big shiny ornaments. Even though the hospital was quiet and dark - almost eerily so at 4 a.m. - I swear, I heard a few strains of Silent Night, swirling up around that beautiful tree, lifting softly and sweetly into the night…I thought about all the sad situations and difficult times happening to people in rooms all over this big place…and, I said a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
My life certainly has some very real, very big-seeming problems looming relentlessly over our heads, even as we try to solve them. The brightness of my New Year - given the state of the economy and Mr. Clark’s continued unemployment - is in no way guaranteed…But, I do have a healthy family who will gather around my Christmas tree again this year, and once again, we are all, in various degrees, okay.
Life, and God, are good, and I see that, and I hear that, in the faces and words of so many of the people who pass through the ER, having such very terrible days. They talk of love, and faith, and happy memories…There are no words of hate at an ER bedside. There are only tears, and hope, and sometimes - to those serving at that bedside – a reminder of how thankful we all must be.
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